


You're (not) Close Enough

by stargazers



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Gang AU, M/M, Mormon, Religious Conflict, Religious Themes, minor sex scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargazers/pseuds/stargazers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone should have warned Ryan not to steal from the Mormon kid down the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're (not) Close Enough

The skies are blue, bluer than Brendon has ever seen before, darker than Dallon’s eyes but more vibrant, and it’s a shame Brendon has to spend his day running around the neighborhood with a stack of glue-scenting Bibles. He would rather surf, or run kites, or find a nice park down the road to sit down under the water colored sky and just think. But no, he has people to bug, a religion to preach, and it’s all for the greater good, right? Yeah.

It still lifts his mood and he finds himself humming along to a half-forgotten tune, polished shoes clicking against the tarmac of the road, as Brendon eyes the series of identical houses lined up against one another like tombs. Sighing softly, he blows a stray bang out of his eyes, and wishes Dallon were there with him, he was always the better speaker. Conviction, or whatever. He would rather stand next to him, studying the pristine wood of people’s homes, counting the seconds until it would be slammed in their faces, occasionally nodding to whatever Dallon would say. Still, it’s better than Brendon talking, trying to convince people to turn to a religion he himself didn’t believe in, and he wasn’t up for that type of hypocrisy.

For a minute there, standing in front of an egg-white house, Brendon thinks of leaving. Just walking away from his life as a Mormon, from waking up at the crack of dawn to mumble a prayer he didn’t understand to a God he didn’t think he believed in. The ordeal was draining, sucking the life out of him, and Brendon thought it was rather ironic. Maybe he should leave the pile of printed books right there in the dew covered lawn, leave it for someone else to mold their life around, because he can’t do it anymore.

‘Hands up, fucker!’

Brendon doesn’t even hear the sound of footsteps; he is that much of a mess. Blinking up stupidly, the sun bursts into his line of sight, and he’s suddenly sent into a strange type of vertigo before he moves his head out of the way and adjusts to the image of a group of people gathered in front of him.

They’re no more than 19, dressed in the same shade of black as Brendon, but that’s pretty much all they have in common. They’ve all got varying degrees of long, dark hair, metal studs against the black leather of their jackets, and it’s only when the guy at the front steps closer with a raised fist and a should-be-intimidating scowl, that Brendon realizes that it is no surprise that he is being cornered by a gang. And it’s almost laughable, Brendon can’t wait until they see what he’s carrying around in those cardboard crates, so he raises his hands up, biting his lip to refrain from smiling.

He fails, apparently, and the guy at the front shoots him a quizzical look, straight brown hair covering his left eye, but he approaches Brendon anyway, yanking at his coat with more vehemence than necessary, and searching through the pockets. Brendon thinks he should be panicking, but he really isn’t, just amused, and he takes the time to scan the three other men bunched in front of him. There’s one with short, dirty blonde hair and smeared eye liner, a round baby face, and the almost the same shade of eyes as Dallon. The one in the middle is just grinning stupidly, and Brendon wonders if he’s on some sort of drug, and what it would feel like if he tried it.

The guy plasters his hand against Brendon’s pockets, scowling, before yanking the box from where Brendon had placed it beside his feet and peering inside.

‘What the actual fuck,’ he mutters, clearly dazed, before the rest of them crowd around, peeking inside the crate before breaking out in laughter. Brendon has the insane urge to join them. The guy with the blue eyes is staring at him in disbelief, before chuckling, soft and low.

‘Told ya’ we shouldn’t have followed him, Ryan.’

And as they all turn to ‘Ryan’, Brendon does too, following their gaze to the man at the very end who’s rubbing bony fingers against the right side of his neck in defeat, avoiding eye contact. His grey shirt slips down his right shoulder from the action, revealing an expanse of pale, smooth skin, and Brendon has to tear his eyes away from the sight.

Enter problem #2; Brendon’s unclear-but-clear sexuality. To sum it up, he shouldn’t be enjoying the sight of the man’s prominent collar bones and milky skin as much as he is. But that hasn’t stopped him before.

The man doesn’t bother adjusting his shirt, and Brendon wants to reach out to run his fingers over his skin or yank the fabric in place, but he does neither of the things, just fidgets in place until he can’t take it anymore.

‘Find anything you like?’

He shouldn’t be speaking, it’s a stupid move, but Brendon wants to gauge a reaction out of the man – _Ryan_ \- the man with scruffy brown hair and sharp hipbones, wants to search his eyes for reason and meaning and guidance, because God sure as hell isn’t giving him any.

One of them pipe up, losing patience and interest, though Brendon’s eyes are only searching for Ryan’s, waiting for him to look up, and he feels like he might die if he doesn’t.

‘Let’s go, Brent, Spencer, Ryan. Leave the Mormon to his books.’

And just like that, they turn away, still chuckling, and Brendon thinks he should be calling them back, handing out copies of books and guiding them, but who is he to guide? Instead, he lets out a defeated sigh, rubbing his wrist unconsciously, and he hasn’t realized Ryan’s still standing there, studying him.

‘So, do you believe? In God.’

His monotone washes over Brendon, and there’s something about the frayed edges of his voice that suggests curiosity instead of indifference, and when Brendon finally looks up to meet his eyes, he’s taken aback by what he sees there. They shimmer with a brown brilliance, inquisitive, expressive, the only part of Ryan that actually resembles emotion, life. And then there are the dark circles underneath like shadows, the smudged line of eye liner, the hint of red in his whites, and unlike the rest of them – Spencer, Brent – Ryan doesn’t radiate a sense of freedom. He looks just as confined as Brendon, miserable, and it draws out what Brendon hasn’t admitted to anyone before.

‘No. Do you believe in roaming around the streets, hassling people for money?

He watches Ryan swallow hard.

‘No,’ and then Brendon’s smiling like it all makes sense, and he sees the shadow of a smile reflected in Ryan’s own eyes, the slight pull of his red lips, and then he’s gone.

-

Brendon doesn’t show up to hand out Bibles the next day, or the day after. When Dallon asks why, still raging with a fever, Brendon insists that he feels uncomfortable without Dallon, and that is partly true. But then there’s the rest of him that feels completely comfortable with expelling his religion slowly, gladly, like a breath held for too long. He wonders how long it will be until he has to inhale again.

-

He’s sinking, he knows it, but there’s nothing he can do. There’s something gripping at him, gnawing at his shins, wrapping around his calves and pulling him under every time he tries to explain to Dallon that he doesn’t believe in whatever it is they’re doing. It cuts a hole in his stomach when he sees the confusion, misunderstanding and repulsion in his clear eyes, and Brendon can’t come up with an explanation when Dallon demands one. _It’s just a phase, you’re feeling rebellious,_ he keeps insisting, and Brendon wants to tear his hair out and yell - It’s not a rebellion if you’ve never consented to it.

It’s Ryan’s eyes that flash in his head seconds before he falls asleep, on those nights.

-

It gets rough one morning when Brendon refuses to go to Church, in a hollow, aching sort of way. Dallon doesn’t even try arguing, persuading, and Brendon’s eyes scream _try to understand_ before he’s walking out the door with his belongings slung over his shoulder.

He doesn’t know where he’s going and he somehow ends up at a gay bar by nightfall, and it’s different; there’s soft music and wooden tables and glasses of wine, nothing but conventional, nothing like his religion has warned him against. It doesn’t reek of sweat or sex; it smells like Persian carpets and sawdust. It smells like home.

Brendon sits himself on a wooden stool, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders as he chats with the bartender, something about music, and before he knows it, Brendon’s pulling out the case of his old guitar for the first time in the past 3 years. When he strums it gently, soothing, that feels like home, too.

_Can we fast forward till you go down on me?_

_Stop there and let me correct it_

_I want to live a life from a new perspective_

_You come along because I love your face_

_And I’ll admire your expensive tastes_

When he looks up, surprised by the crowd gathered in front of him, his gaze locks on to a familiar pair of eyes, and Ryan’s downing his drink in one gulp, the line of his throat clear and tempting, before he stands up to leave.

-

He seems to melt into the crowd, evaporate, and Brendon doesn’t want to lose him again, he won’t lose him again, so when Ryan turns a sharp right into a small corner of the room, Brendon follows him, a hand wrapping around his jacketed arm. He tries to ignore the clear line of muscle underneath his hand, and before he knows it, Ryan is turning to face him. Brendon doesn’t take his hand away.

Ryan’s eyes are hollow, digging into his skin, his cheekbones emphasized, and there’s an ugly bruise forming over his chiseled jawline. A pale V-neck clings onto his frame, futile, revealing collar bones Brendon often thinks about through storms of lust and frustration in the middle of the night. But all he thinks of now, studying Ryan’s pained expression, is sadness.

‘I suppose you finally quit,’ he pauses, waves his hand around ambiguously. ‘All. _That._ ’

‘Doesn’t look like you quit. All _that_ ,’ Brendon remarks softly, nodding towards the bruise on his jaw, and he wishes he could take it back because Ryan’s flinching away, crowding into the corner, and Brendon’s afraid he’ll lose sight of him again. But he doesn’t understand why Ryan does what he does, and he’s never been so interested in the life of a gangster before, but he seems miserable, lonely, broken, bruised. And he hears the softest sigh escaped Ryan’s lips when Brendon traces the bruise on his jaw with a calloused finger, so he massages it, stepping closer.

‘It’s not that easy. Getting out,’ he sighs, leaning into Brendon’s touch, weightless.

‘I can help,’ Brendon whispers, and his hand’s travelling up his cheek, brushing a strand of brown hair behind his ear, and when Ryan meets his eyes unsteadily, it’s like they’re exchanging pieces of their souls, jostling them around like jigsaw pieces to see if they fit.

And they do.

-

It becomes routine, the both of them meeting at the bar, and Brendon doesn’t even have to look up to know that Ryan’s there, listening to the hum of his voice, and that’s all he needs. The bartender hires him for decent money, and though Brendon’s sure he can work as something better, bigger elsewhere, he isn’t sure if Ryan would be there.

As Ryan’s smiles become more frequent, so do the bruises on his face, or the cuts on his arm, and Brendon wants to ask _why, how, who?_ But he doesn’t, just watches Ryan wince when Brendon clutches his wrist too tight to show him something, watches him rub his temples before shooting Brendon a broken smile.

One night, where Brendon is feeling giddy and happier than he’s felt in a long time, he thrusts his guitar into Ryan’s pale fingers and just grins, refusing to take it back until Ryan plays something, and after countless minutes of swearing and light punches, Ryan grabs the neck, shoves it into his lap and starts playing.

It starts off angry, persistent strums and clenching fingers, before Ryan relaxes into a sad, nostalgic melody, and Brendon perks up when the man starts singing, eyes downcast and hooded. He tries to ignore the series of red lashes against the pale of his wrist when Ryan’s jacket sleeve hitches up.

_Sugar cane in the easy morning_

_Weathervanes my_

_One and lonely_

The crowd erupts in applaud, but Ryan simply stands up, hands Brendon his guitar, and leaves.

-

He doesn’t know what Ryan does in the day, why he’s always bleeding, or dirty, or bruised when he strolls into the bar at 8 sharp, eyes searching for Brendon. He wants to ask, but Ryan’s eyes bleed _don’t,_ so he doesn’t.

He does what he does best; grins wider when he sees Ryan in the crowd of people, acts more childish to coax a laugh out of him, blurts out random stories to distract him, pretends to be drunker than he really is just to feel Ryan’s arms wrap around his waist as he leads him out the door. Brendon wants to give him something to think about the next morning, when he wakes up to a life of dark alleyways and gangs, fists and money, cigarettes and cocaine. He wants to give Ryan a second chance.

-

Whenever Brendon brings it up, Ryan’s smiles turn into frowns, his teasing _that’s not how you do it, Brendon_ ’s shift into _it’s not easy, they won’t let me_ and Brendon regrets it, always. He just can’t stand to see Ryan bleeding, fading in front of him.

-

The first time it happens, they’re not drunk, not off alcohol, anyway. Some ancient dance track spins off in the background, and men rush to the dance floor like moths, losing themselves in the music. So Brendon does the same. Grabbing Ryan’s skinny wrist – growing bonier day by day – he yanks him into the crowd, and hushes Ryan’s half-hearted protests with a finger to his lips. He tries not to shiver when Ryan breathes against him, and plays the role of the confident, carefree partner, when Brendon’s knees are actually shaking and his heart is knocking loudly against his ribs when Ryan places long fingers against his hip, firm and fragile and close.

And just like that, Ryan’s features darken to a smirk and he yanks Brendon flush against his chest, entwining their fingers before spinning him around in time to the music, and Brendon’s laughing, he can’t see, he can’t think, he can only hear Ryan’s voice chuckling ‘faster, Urie!’ and suddenly Brendon’s falling. On top of Ryan.

They roll around, knocking into a couple of feet, until the finally tumble to a stop, and Ryan’s hovering over him, Brendon’s wrists pinned against the dirty floor, but he doesn’t care. Ryan’s eyes flash with amusement, curiosity and something much darker, until he quickly closes the distance between their lips with a needy moan.

He tastes like cigarettes and spice and something that is just Ryan, and Brendon doesn’t try to think anymore because Ryan’s not in a hurry; he tastes Brendon like a delicacy, like an addiction, like Brendon’s worth something, and it’s needy and long and Brendon hasn’t felt this good in his entire life.

-

The night Brendon buys his apartment, he invites -more like _forces_ \- Ryan to come home with him, just for a celebratory drink and maybe some dinner, if Ryan’s lucky.

And they sit down in front of a battered sofa and TV, the only furniture in the disgustingly tiny, filthy apartment, but Ryan doesn’t mind, doesn’t bat an eyelid, and just plops down and hogs the remote. They watch some shitty wrestling for a while, eating stale pizza and drinking cheap beer, and Brendon forces himself to watch until Ryan’s lips become more fascinating.

Ryan’s addicted to the screen, eyes wide and completely hooked, and Brendon wants his attention, wants him to _forget about the fucking wrestling for one minute, Ryan_ , so he leans over and runs his tongue over Ryan’s bottom lip quickly, and it takes him 10 full seconds before he glances over at Brendon, smiling slightly.

‘Someone’s getting jealous,’ he coos, and Brendon just flips him off, scowling, before turning his back to Ryan and finishing off his pizza. A second later, Ryan’s long arms wrap around his torso from behind and Brendon can feel his heart beat against his back, and tries to stifle a moan when Ryan nips at his neck, pushing back unconsciously against Ryan’s hardening dick, needy.

They fuck there, on the cold, hard floor, Ryan rutting against him at a brutal, delicious pace, and Brendon can’t think of anything more fitting.

-

Brendon knows something is wrong the second he wakes up on the tiny couch, a strange hammering in his chest. Ryan’s gone, without a note, and Brendon is sure he had dreamt it up if it wasn’t for Ryan’s black sock lying abandoned under the sofa and the bruising on Brendon’s wrist where Ryan had held on too tight. He feels something coil in his stomach, but just grabs a pack of cigarettes and tries to smoke it off.

By the time Brendon gets to the bar, his nerves have gone haywire, and he doesn’t understand when the bartender says that ‘A man came by and is interested in hiring you for your music,’ and just shrugs it off. The only person he cares listens to his music is Ryan, and that’s enough for him, more than enough.

He wonders why Ryan affects him so much, the man with the pale skin and bleached bones, with a laugh that sounds like rocks rumbling. Brendon doesn’t know half of what goes on in Ryan’s life, but he thinks he knows the half that matters.

-

His phone buzzes in his pocket the second he finishes the last chord to ‘I Have Friends in Holy Spaces’, and he ignores it, searching the crowd for Ryan. He’s never late, and the feeling in Brendon’s stomach only tightens, but his phone is on the verge of exploding in his pocket so he picks it up, irritated.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, Mormon kid. What the fuck did you do to Ryan?’

And Brendon recognizes the voice as one of Ryan’s friends, and it’s verging on panic and desperation. Fear instinctively hits Brendon’s stomach at the thought of something happening to Ryan, something worse than black eyes and bruised ribs.

‘What happened? Where is he?’

‘Fucking unconscious, bleeding to death in some alley way! What did you do to him?’

Brendon’s heart is in his throat. He sets his jaw, clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘Why aren’t you getting him?’

‘We-We can’t. It’s not like that. We can’t help him now,’ and the desperation is so heavy in the man’s voice that Brendon doesn’t know what to do.

‘Just tell me where he is.’

‘10th street, Fermont. Hurry up, man,’ and the phone clicks off.

Brendon doesn’t think twice before sprinting out the door and running down the street.

-

He can’t focus. Brendon’s ADHD kicks in, and he can’t see where he’s going, he doesn’t know where he is, he just knows that Ryan is in trouble, and that he’s wasting time. He runs faster than he has ever run in his life, thighs aching from the stretch, and his mind goes fuzzy at the thought of Ryan bleeding to death. Brendon can feel his breath hitching in his throat. _Now is not the time to panic._

He thinks of the things he could have done to stop him from fucking himself over; insisting that Ryan stay away from the gangs, away from trouble, breaking ties with them, anything. Anything but the anchor in his heart inscribed ‘Ryan’s hurt and it’s your fault’, sinking and sinking and it’s the same fucking thing, all over again. Ryan helped him break free of his religion, his depression, and he couldn’t do the same for Ryan.

Brendon’s trembling now – how long has it been since the call? 5 minutes? 20? He’s going to faint, he can feel it, but he won’t let himself be so weak.

His eyes catch sight of brown, and he can barely make out the street sign but he runs over anyway, narrowly dodging a car in desperation, watching as Ryan’s face comes into view. Ambulance sirens wail behind Brendon as he runs, and he realizes that someone must have called for help.

His knees almost gave away when he sees Ryan’s battered body, white t-shirt stained a hideous red, blood pooling out like ink from his body, and Brendon barely holds back a sob. He can feel his heart beating, his pulse, and he’s cradling Ryan’s head in his lap, running his fingers through Ryan’s hair in a way Ryan would never let him before, and fat, ugly tears fall on Ryan’s scratched cheeks. Salt for the wounds.

And then Ryan blinks his eyes open, coughing, before rasping out in a whisper.

‘I did it, Brendon. I got away,’ and Brendon wants to beat him up for being such an idiot and kiss his cracked lips, and cry and sing to him, but words tumble out of his lips before he can stop them.

‘You fucking idiot. I love you.’

Brown eyes twinkle, watering over, before Ryan musters a grin.

And then the ambulance has pulled over, red and blue and white and it’s all noise, background noise – the only thing Brendon hears is Ryan’s words – _‘I love you, too.’_

**Author's Note:**

> YOOO WOO WOOooo  
> kay i'm sleeping now
> 
> Let me know what you think! <333


End file.
